


Falling, Enduring, And Retching

by Modest_K



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dark, Disease, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Fear, Gen, Greengrass Manor, HP Fanfic Writers' Guild, Hogsmeade, Horror, Psychological Horror, Quarantine, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29546769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Modest_K/pseuds/Modest_K
Summary: A collection of horror drabbles set in the Harry Potter universe
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: HP Fanfic Writers' Guild Horror Drabble Challenge 2021





	1. A Hogsmeade Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Serial Killer

Someone was following her. 

She’d worked it out early on; two wars and two thousand drunk idiots over the years had instilled in her a natural caution. 

The early morning was thick with fog, the air damp and frigid as she locked up the pub and started down the road. She was only out so early to meet a friend who lived a little deeper in the village. The two were to go hiking. 

Her hand slipped into her pocket, her fingers wrapping around her wand. She knew better than to start casting looks over her shoulders— the very movement would _scream_ “victim.” But her eyes, mostly instinctively, darted back and forth, trying to make something out through the pre-dawn haze. 

_Snap._

She whirled around, her wand drawn and a shield charm at her lips. 

No one was there. 

Madam Rosmerta frowned, her eyebrows drawn together in unease and the air feeling a little chillier. She shrugged in her coat, trying to coax out more warmth, and reluctantly turned around.

She never saw more than a shadowy figure a few steps away, clouded by the fog, and a flash of white light. 

Her body froze, her eyes wide and her arm still extended. Her wand slipped from her grasp and she could do nothing but topple forward into the road, completely immobile. 

She could feel the proximity of the killer as they loomed over her. Cold steel of some sort of blade traced one of her cheeks, the other pressed against the pavement. If she could move, she’d have screamed as the tip dug in a little deeper. 

And then the knife cut its way down to her throat and everything went dark.


	2. The Boggart

I’ve seen inside your head. 

Do you fear the dark? Or perhaps a killer in a skin-mask, with wide eyes and a mouth haphazardly sewn shut? 

Maybe it’s something a little deeper— maybe it’s your loved ones, sprawled out and bloodied, the colour drained from their bodies so that you barely recognize them. You do, of course, and the terror and misery still show, the remnants of their screams evident on their dead faces. 

Maybe you fear failure. Or shame. Or a lifetime of insignificance that culminates in a hollow version of yourself, old and useless and resigned to mediocrity and bitterness and  _ loneliness.  _

Is it something else? 

_ Picture it, then.  _

Let the dread consume you and the shivers run down your spine until your toes curl, as it reveals itself to you.

It’s there now. 

It’s looming over you like the tiny, insignificant bug that you are. It knows you’re weak. Your fear grows, I can smell it, and it’s  _ intoxicating.  _ You’re trembling and weak and you want this to be over. You’re rooted in place, too petrified to scream, and you’ve never so badly wanted to shut your eyes and look away, but you  _ can’t. _

Whatever it may be, whatever haunt keeps you up at night as you clutch your pillow with a tight hand and a muffled whimper, _picture it,_ as I show it to you now. 

Because I’ve seen inside your head, and I feed on your nightmares. 

_ And I am famished. _


	3. Her Last Days

_ “There’s something wrong with her blood.” _

Well, wasn’t that putting it lightly?

The healers ensured she was cut off from the rest of the hospital; they’d become gradually warier as her symptoms had worsened, far beyond those her mother had died of. They grew uncertain, worried about contagion and spread.

She’d agreed they ought to play it safe, letting them store her in some room that was isolated enough from the rest of the ward to feel like its own  _ country,  _ under the sovereign rule of Death. 

Truthfully, it wasn’t the rest of the world that had her agreeing to her seclusion. It was thoughts of her family;  _ gods,  _ the idea of them seeing her so weak and repulsive made her dizzy. 

She’d grown so pale, and sickly, and her complexion had turned a light shade of green not unlike the murky fog of a swamp. In some areas— well, everywhere really— the skin had begun to rot, and it smelled like blight. 

Potion after potion she drank. Layer after layer they added to their protection spells that kept the lingering stench of decay limited to her room. 

And the  _ coughing _ , merciless in the way it persisted until she was retching and grabbing at the air in a hysteric frenzy, desperately trying to breathe. And every time she managed to intake that relieving gulp of oxygen, the coughs would return twice as ruthless, until blood splattered across the sheets and trailed down her chin. 

Sometimes, she imagined herself in this state at home. She could almost see the look on her son’s face— confused and horrified at the unrecognizable creature she’d become. 

But what frightened her more was the thought that, were it truly something wrong with her blood, it could be in his too.


	4. From the Walls

It started with a scream. 

The agony in it was palpable, the shrill wail shaking her room. The first time it happened, she’d spent the night in her parents’ room, but it wasn’t long before she was too old for such a thing.

The smell came next. 

It wasn’t something intolerable, like the stench of decaying flesh, but it was musty, and it made her room feel so  _ damp _ .

Her parents put up protection charms to placate her, and her sister generously offered up her favourite blanket to stuff under the door to prevent anything from seeping in. 

But one night, she awoke to the usual shrieks that always seemed to come straight from the walls themselves. And, like always, they came accompanied by the moldy odor, like rotted wood. 

Daphne sat up in bed, pulling her covers around her a little more tightly. She surveyed the dark of her room with a shaky breath, waiting for the screams to fade away. 

Her eyes drifted to the door, scanning the mirror that hung along the back and pausing on the little blanket pressed into the crack. Squinting, she noticed a small part of it had shifted enough to let some air leak under the door. 

_ No… _

Daphne got out of bed and hurried to stuff the blanket back into place. 

She stood back up and froze as she caught her reflection. 

_ That’s not me… _

It  _ could  _ have been her. If she’d kept her hair long and tousled, and bashed her face against the wall a few times, and rolled her eyes back so that only the milky whites showed, and clawed at her cheeks until flesh and bone were exposed, then perhaps it might have been.

And when Daphne screamed, the woman before her screamed too.


	5. It Returns

“Well I heard  _ something, _ ” Astoria insisted. “In the ballroom!”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “You can’t have heard that from all the way out here.” 

The two sat against a maple tree that stood near the edge of the grounds, a favourite spot of theirs. “I did!” The smaller one glared. “Just like you hear the screaming lady!”

Daphne stiffened. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

Astoria started to retort, but the sound rang out once again, and she instead shuffled closer to her sister. “I heard it again.”

The other huffed. “What is it, then?” She asked, humouring the smaller girl. “A scream?”

“No. More like… choking. Or _gurgling._ ”

“How do you even know it’s coming from the ballroom?”

Astoria hugged herself tightly. “I just do.”

Daphne tossed her hair and stood up abruptly. “Let’s have a look then, yeah?” She started off down the grass, heading back toward the manor. 

“Daphne!” The younger one called, pushing herself up and running after her. “Wait!”

They ran for the house, straight for the ballroom. Astoria trailed closely, more scared of being alone than of whatever was making the sounds. 

When they arrived, nothing was there. 

“See?” Daphne rolled her eyes again. But the younger one wasn’t paying her any attention. “Astoria?”

Astoria’s eyes were glued elsewhere— on a mirror that hung against the wall before them. She trembled, whispering, “Why does she look like that?”

“Who?” Daphne frowned, only seeing themselves. 

“ _ The green lady, _ ” Astoria breathed. “She’s… she’s so pale. There’s blood on her face. I— I think she’s sick.”

“Astoria—”

“She’s coughing up blood,” Astoria whispered. “And crying.”

“ _ You’re  _ crying, Astoria,” Daphne said, though audible fear tinged her words.

Astoria whimpered. “I… I think she’s  _ me _ .” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go!!! Some spooky drabbles, some of which may get tied into the same universe as some of my existing fics, just for fun :D I friggin love writing horror, feel free to lemme know what you though! Hope you enjoyed!


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